Dark Temptation
by kalonrain
Summary: He was dark, and he was cruel, and he was Death. She was sweet, and she was kind, and she was Light. [Hades & Persephone AU]
1. Chapter 1

**My first fanfic, but I have been really enjoying reading these Greek God AUs. I hope you enjoy!**

Alone in a field of blooming flowers, the young goddess of nature danced. Her eyes alight with childlike joy, she plucked and weaved the blooms into a delicate crown, reviving the wilting ones with a gentle touch and a furrowed brow.

She was the essence of the beauty surrounding her, encapsulated in a delicate slip of a girl. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a simple braid, stray strands framing her pale face and large, adoring brown eyes.

"Molly?"

Molly's head lifted up from the in-progress bouquet in her hands and towards the voice. A woman at the edge of the field, still as beautiful but not as youthful, smiled down at her daughter. The mother's eyes were darker than her daughter's, and showed her innumerable years.

"My dear, come in soon, would you?" Demeter affectionately asked. "Do not deprive me of your company much longer."

Molly smiled, adoration shining through her eyes. "Of course, Mother." Her voice was high and clear, innocent and devastatingly trusting.

Her mother nodded and slipped away, out of Molly's sight. Molly watched her go, then bent over to pluck one last flower from the ground. She frowned slightly, and caressed the blue petals lightly. The flower became all the more radiant, and Molly's face smoothed out as she laughed with happiness.

From afar, a man of shadows watched.

...

"I want her, Mycroft."

The god of the skies, ruler of Olympus, sighed and leaned back in his throne. He gave off an uninterested air, but his eyes were clear and calculating, rapidly cataloging any movement coming from his brother. Mycroft straightened his robe idly. "Must you be so mundane, Sherlock? It's tiresome."

Sherlock growled. "You speak of mundane to me, Mycroft? You, who must take a new lover every night? You might as well be a mortal, _brother._ " His aura was darkened, and the spirits of Olympus shuddered and kept a wide berth. Bright flowers shivered and wilted.

The god of the dead was a stark contrast to the splendor of Olympus. The land of the gods was dazzling, bright and blinding. Sherlock was forbidding, his demeanor stern and bleak. His appearances at Olympus are few and unwanted, his black moods leaving destruction behind.

Mycroft lazily traced a finger along his ornate throne. "It matters not, Sherlock. Demeter would never consent."

Sherlock stalked around the throne room, and metals, proof of the luxury the Olympians were living, began to quiver with his anger. He whipped around, his black cape swirling behind him. He snarled, "Don't you think I'm aware? It changes nothing - "

"The daughter of Demeter is too precious to her. She, nor the child, would ever be a willing participant in your union." Mycroft's voice rang out with his characteristic 'I-will-have-the-last-word' tone, and his eyes were stern - but Sherlock suddenly stopped. He slowly turned around, his lips curving up into a wicked smile.

"Then unwilling it is."

With that, the god of the dead stalked out of Olympus, in search of his goddess. And outside, a storm brewed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Goodness gracious, this was a heckuva lot harder to write than the first chapter. I was extremely apprehensive going into it. The older-younger brother relationship came pretty easily to me (maybe because I have an older brother too) but the interaction between Molly and Sherlock? It took a lot of just sitting and staring at the words to try and get the conversation flowing in my mind. The descriptions was insanely difficult, I tried my best but gosh, do I have a new-found appreciation for writers.**

 **Anyway, a big thanks to Winter Character for her lovely review, made me smile :) Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

As her simple white silk dress was swept along with the wind, Molly twirled the stem around between two fingers, watching the petals spin idly. Nodding her approval, she tucked the purple flower into her loose plait.

"Lovely. Though I have always prefered black."

The goddess gasped, whipping around to the unfamiliar voice. There, at the corner of the field, was a man draped in black robes. Dark, silky curls piled on his head, the man was slim and strong, with cheekbones cutting across his face. His every feature was a contrast - his hair dark, his skin almost ghostly pale, his manner very cool and collected but his gaze almost animal-like. Molly took an unsteady breath and called out with forced bravery, "Who are you, mortal?"

The man chuckled darkly, amused by the young girl's question. "I am no mortal, child, and neither are you," he rumbled in a deep voice. He took a step forward, and Molly suddenly felt the sensation of prey being stalked by predator.

And as the man advanced, Molly could feel the power rolling off of him. She shivered, the knowledge chilling her, and asked again quietly, "Then who are you?"

With unwavering intensity the man stepped closer until the whites of his eyes were visible. Molly's eyes darted around, until finally caught in the blue-green-grey storm of his own. The breath caught in her chest as she watched his dark eyelashes flutter and his full mouth curve up into a wicked grin. He stepped even closer, studying her reaction unwaveringly.

His breath ghosted across her face, and she very nearly closed her eyes.

"I am the god of death. And you are to be mine."

Around the still field, flowers quivered. Molly's heart stopped as she realized the sheer danger she was in.

Immediately, thoughts flew through her mind. The stories of a dark, cruel, demon of a man ingrained into her since the beginning of her existence. Mortals do not dare utter his name, terrified of calling death's unwanted attention. The fear associated with even just the name was enough to terrify a minor goddess such as herself. Yes, the god of the dead was an Olympian, but he was not welcome in the land of the living.

Molly swallowed in the stifling quiet, and managed to whisper out, "You...you can't have me."

Sherlock tilted his head, amused. "Oh?" he breathed. "And why is that, little goddess?"

The words were getting harder to force out, every movement of his causing her to flinch. She was suddenly hyper-aware of every sound, movement, and breath - they were mind-numbingly loud. "I - I wouldn't go."

Again, Sherlock laughed. The sound was smooth and dangerous, causing Molly's eyes to flutter shut in a mixture of fear and odd pleasure. A virgin goddess, she'd never been quite this intimately close to a man, mortal or god, and she found herself transfixed by his long pale throat, his slender hands, his full luscious lips. Flowers, vines, weeds wound themselves around his legs, an unconscious reaction to their master's terror.

He leaned in, and murmured in her ear, "I quite doubt you could stop me."

The prey within the predator's grasp, he pounced. Sherlock roughly gathered her into his arms, pulling her close - too close - to his chiseled chest. The earth responded to his call, and only one startled scream could tear from Molly's lips before she was dragged away from her home, and into the Underworld.


	3. Chapter 3

**Geez, that again was a little tough. Interactions between those two characters are hard, but the ones with John and Sherlock weren't nearly as difficult. There was a lot of opening the document and just staring at it - before closing it with a "I tried" feeling. But it's finally done! I hope you guys like it. Oh! Also, just a heads up: all my chapters are unedited, meaning I basically just wrote it - no editing or reading over - and submitted it.**

 **Big thanks to Winter Character and TheSandFromTheEmbers, you both are so sweet and _very_ encouraging.**

 **...**

 _"Flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo."_

 _"If I can't bend the Heavens above, then I shall move Hell."_

Above in the skies, a storm was forming.

…

In an ornate throne room, far away from any life, a dark shadow of a man appeared with a slip of a girl in his arms. The man was entirely unruffled by the sudden arrival - hair, clothes, everything in place - while the girl seemed to be unconscious, her head and body limp against Sherlock's chest.

" _Christ_ , Sherlock, what have you done?" A man, less severe looking than the other, leapt up from his spot, where he had evidently been waiting for his return.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am aware you were a persecuted Christian during your mortal lifetime, but I'm here, you've seen me, I exist, so please desist." He deposited the girl into a servant's arms, commanding that she be taken to his chambers, and dropped into his throne with a nonchalant air.

"Well, if you're the god I have to look forward to for the rest of my existence, I'd rather stay in denial, thank you very - ," he broke off, abruptly remembering the uncommon situation in front of him. "Tell me you haven't taken Demeter's daughter, Sherlock, _please_ ," John groaned.

"Well, obviously not," Sherlock drawled. He steepled his hands under his chin, staring out of the window into the gloomy Fields of Punishment. "I wanted her, John, and Mycroft kindly pointed out that she would never come willingly, so I took the necessary steps to bring her back to my domain."

His shocked companion gaped at him, wondering how such a brilliant, powerful god could be so blind. He sputtered out sarcastically, "Oh, and I'm sure that kidnapping is the best way to earn her trust, no?"

"Precisely." Sherlock grinned. "I'm glad you've caught up, John, you can be frightfully slow sometimes."

He swiftly exited the room, casting gloomy shadows on the walls, as John put his head in his hands and groaned.

…

Sherlock entered his room, and his eyes latched onto the girl already standing in the corner. Molly was tense, prepared to run - to where, he wondered - but her gaze was every bit as intense as his. The fear and uncertainty was still present, but Sherlock was rather impressed by the effort she managed to put in, even in her admittedly frazzled emotional state.

"My mother will raise hell and earth to get me back," she whispered, the ire strong in her voice. But with her fists curled to her sides, Molly felt like a foolish lamb standing up to a powerful lion. In this situation, Molly was very much the prey.

His eyes alight, he chuckled before enunciating slowly, "I'm afraid that's not quite within her power, little goddess. Rather, hell is _mine_." He stepped closer, almost breathing the same air as her. He took dark pleasure in seeing her breath hitch and her eyes flickering to his before darting back down. Anxiety, terror, false bravado, elevated rate of breathing, and -

He blew his breath out slowly, relishing his next words. "Why do you smell of desire, little goddess?" Sherlock's eyes roamed over her face, again searching for her delicious reactions.

Her hand whipped out to try and crack across his face, but his own hand shot out, catching her small wrist in an iron grasp. His eyes still steady on hers, a wicked grin formed on his face, causing shivers to run up and down Molly's spine. Her breath came out in harsh pants, and sudden adrenaline pumped through her veins.

"How - how...how _dare_ you - ," she gasped out.

Sherlock cut her off, dragging her wrist down to the side of her body and pulling her into him, straight and hard against his chest. He bent his neck and laid a scorching kiss on her mouth - and for a moment, the world trembled. Blazing lips moving in unison, two bodies moving closer and harder against each other -

Molly laid her hands on his chest and pushed him away, staggering back against the bed. She lifted a shaky hand to her lips, the pale skin against the bruised, startling red. Her breath violently pushed out of her parted lips as she hesitantly lifted her dark eyes from the floor to stare at Sherlock.

He was a statue. Unmoving, unrelenting, his own eyes piercing hers for a moment before he turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

…

Up above in a field, a flower shivered.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm really sorry. School started again, and I saw an old ex-boyfriend - I've been spending a lot more time thinking 'What am I going to do?' than 'What are Molly and Sherlock going to do?'**

 **Anyway - guys! It happened! I got a review** **going "When will you update?" and then didn't update for a solid 2 weeks - I feel like a real fanfiction writer now. So special thanks to Guest :)**

" _Vincit qui se vincit."_

" _He conquers who conquers himself."_

Molly lifted a shaky hand, pressing the back of it against her raw lips. No relief came from her skin though, her hand just as scorching hot as her lips, and suddenly she could feel that tremors were still ripping through her body.

The god of the dead had left wreckage behind.

The maiden goddess was no child. She had lived many a mortal's life, choosing to remain in her youthful form. But the weight of everything that had happened crashed upon her - kidnapping, the underworld, a _kiss_ \- and she choked on a sob. Again, Molly pressed her hand to her lips, but this time to stifle her cries.

She could still feel traces of heat on her arms, waist, face, where Sherlock had dragged his fingers. She gingerly brushed against them, remembering the kiss over and over, again and again.

Not a child, yes, but still, Molly had dreamt of love. She had imagined a man - strong, kind, adoring - to sweep off her feet before finally he took a willing kiss from her.

And to have it be torn away so suddenly, she felt rather...bereft. Rather cold. It had all happened so fast, and now, left alone, she felt incredibly lonely. She missed her world above, the sheltered home she had always lived in.

Molly wrapped her arms around her chest, partly to lessen the sudden tightness, and partly to shield herself from the cold chamber.

…

Sherlock slumped against the wall, rather shaken.

He hadn't meant to lose control. The god of the dead _never_ lost control.

He was poised, threatening - a dominant presence in every room he chose to enter. And he had strode into the room with every intention of letting the goddess know exactly what the rules are - but then she had looked at him, and he had lost his mind.

His hands threatened to tremble, and his throat closed up.

Sherlock was not a cruel man, stories be damned. Cold, yes, but a monster, no. Sentiment had no place in his domain, but nor did brutality. Death did not mean torment, and life did not mean contentment.

But here, leaning against a cold wall in his isolated world, he _felt_ cruel.

He had known who the girl was, a maiden goddess, pure and wholly unsullied. He was to wait until she trusted him, until she loved him. But he had stormed in, ripping kisses from her without hesitating - _taunting_ her even.

Demeter would give him hell.

…

And up above, the world suffered.

The sun did not shine, the rain did not come, life was not forthcoming.

Mortals died in thousands, each day bringing new curses from the goddess. They grieved, sacrificed their animals, their children, driven mad by the death that now ruled on the earth. Everyday, they cried to the heavens, begging for mercy. But the mercy would not come.

"Demeter, you cannot carry on like this." Mycroft stood in her dark home, a faint echo of the place it had been. His voice was grave, heavy with the death of the mortals.

Her back was to him, pale skin striking against fading light, and a light breeze rustled through the room, tossing decaying leaves into a soft dance.

"But how fitting," she intoned lowly, but with sharp edges lying underneath, "that the god of dead should take one prize, and from me, receive many."

A slow, mocking smile curved her lips, and she turned her eyes to look into Mycroft's.

Eyes of sorrow, eyes of madness, eyes of a woman haunted.

Vines, once heavy with flowers, now lay shriveled against the stones. Trees rustled with the winds of an agitated god, strange sounds coaxed out of the dead leaves. The world stood devastated with Demeter's anguish, powerless against the consequences of her abandonment.

"Your error cost the world dearly, Mycroft," she spoke his name brazenly, with a recklessness no other god than one utterly wrecked would have dared.

"Thousands have died."

Her words came out viciously. "And none of them innocent." She held his gaze, and continued with a voice of steel, "I owe nothing to the mortals, and I owe nothing to you." Every word enunciated quietly.

And for a moment they stood, grief and despair mixing between them, before Mycroft bowed his head, and turned to leave.

Eyes no longer destroyed, but alight with wild agony. She was a woman burning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Finally, here's another chapter. My apologies, I didn't want to rush into redemption and forgiveness and love - it just isn't like that. So real reactions** **were harder to discover for me, but here it is.**

It is a strange thing, to wake up in a world that is not your own.

Molly's eyes opened, to things that she couldn't recognize. Unfamiliar sights, unfamiliar feelings, unfamiliar sounds.

She was alone, she noted, with some relief. A cursory glance around showed there was no sign of anyone else having been there.

There were wrinkles in her dress and on the blanket where she had been laying. Molly had cried herself to sleep the night before, laying across the bed exhausted with her own misery.

An unfamiliar blanket slid off her shoulders as she sat up, tiredly swiping a hand over her eyes. She blinked, not used to the dull light of the Underworld. It was never dark here, but never fully light - the land glowed with a subdued and angry energy.

She slipped off the bed lightly, the stone floor cold against her small bare feet. They crossed the floor uncertainly, pausing in front of a long silk curtain. Fire flickered across the fabric, and when Molly parted it, a dark corridor stood on the other side.

She glanced around uncertainly before wandering down the hall. She didn't know why she was so wary, but she felt so raw from the night before.

Eventually the young goddess came to a quiet door to the outdoors. She hesitated slightly, wondering what was on the other side. She was sheltered, a stranger to brutality, and she was scared of the possibilities in the land of the dead.

Molly slipped the curtain aside, and stepped out into the cold air.

An easy smile fell onto her lips.

She was rejuvenated immediately. A garden, in this lonely, isolated place.

The flowers surrounding her were black, purple, blue, white. Not the bright colors she was well acclimated to, but even the presence of these dark blooms still comforted her.

She felt closer to her own world. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

With easy touches she moved through the garden, reviving and opening new blooms. They thrived under her fingers, soft velvet trembling as she breathed.

The goddess fell beside a pile of dirt, tucking her bare feet to her side. Her small hand fell on the silt lightly. She trailed her hand through it, closing her eyes gently, brows furrowed.

Slowly, quietly, poppies pushed up through the ground, growing until it stood quivering under her hands, red petals like wildfire spread out into stale air.

They were out of place next to the gloom of this world, but they stood strong and fierce, a lone slash of color.

Molly knew who had done this. Gardens were rare in the Underworld, beauty was foreign to the dead. It was easy to see the hesitant apology in this gesture.

"Thank you." She spoke softly, her head still bent over the flower, letting the wind carry her voice to whatever it may. She knew he would hear it.

And the man of shadows slipped away.

…

He leaned against the cold stones, breathing heavily.

He had seen her eyes, knew that this would not be an easy mend, knew that he was not yet forgiven. He would try, but his brutality had cut a deeper wound than one that could be fixed by mere gardens.

As a younger boy, in the early days of an immortal being such as himself, he had had a horse. Redbeard, he'd called it, a childish name befitting the childish god. Sherlock had cared for him and protected him against his cruel father.

But rage was never too far from Sherlock's reach, and as such, when the grief of death and its hold became too much, he reacted with vicious power, striking the horse with a ferocity and ability he had not known he possessed.

Perhaps that had been the first time he had seen his father smile with pride.

Redbeard had almost died, lying in revolting scarlet, whimpering away from Sherlock's trembling fingers. It was then, with that wary shying away, that the young god had solemnly withdrawn, but not before turning the pet into a new form, that of Cerberus, the guard of the Underworld.

Where the creature had been joyful and trusting, Sherlock's hand had turned him into an untrusting, scared animal. From there, to a snarling beast feared by most.

The greatest sin of all would be to do the same to Molly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6! I'm actually really excited that I've got this far, and I'm trying to give more consistent updates. I'm sorry if you feel this story is crawling at a snail's pace (it is), it's just that I wanted to give some background of the Underworld. Also, I have to make her forgive him, so...**

 **This is for Soaring Heart the Pegasus, I'm glad you liked the Redbeard part!**

"I saw something."

She stood a careful distance from him, two planets stuck in an uncertain orbit. Palpable tension held them still. He wished she'd step further away.

But more than that, he wished she'd come closer.

Carefully not looking at her, he set down a rather primitive telescope that had come into his possession when a young, inquisitive boy had died as many others had in the rage of Demeter. Perhaps there should have been guilt inside of him, knowing his part in this slaughter.

But the god of the dead was a far too selfish being to return his prize, not yet anyway. He wanted to keep her for a little while yet, though his resolve was admittedly weakening.

"What did you see, little one?" Sherlock asked slowly, keeping his gaze down, as to not scare her. He was aware of every of her movements, as well as his.

"I had wandered away from the garden, as far as I dared go. From a distance, I saw - ," her eyes grew distant for a moment, " - horrible things. It was at the entrance - I might've tried to escape if not for the - ," she smiled wryly, without humor, " - the creatures present there."

Fluidly he stands, his dark cloak billowing behind him with his sudden movement. Crossing swiftly to the large window on the other side of the room, he doesn't miss the quiet startled gasp and step Molly takes back. Sherlock does his best to ignore it.

"At the entrance of this realm, Grief, Anxiety, Disease, and Old Age live. Among them is Fear, Hunger, Death, Agony, and Sleep, along with the mortal's Guilty Joys." He smiles grimly. "A reminder, of why the mortals are here. The worst of their life, gathered together...to welcome them."

He turns his head for one moment, just to glance in her eyes. She stares steadily back at him.

So he continues, "On the opposite threshold lies War, the Furies, and Irene; or perhaps better known as Eris, the goddess of strife and discord." He feels his lips curl up into a grimace, "Aptly named, I assure you. Beasts lie among them, and she is very comfortable in their presence. Irene tends to an elm, where the mortal's false dreams cling to every leaf. She, in particular, _excels_ in false dreams."

Molly moves closer, her silk dress trailed across the stone. Her voice comes out a whisper, "A man in a boat, across a river. What of him?"

He turns his head away from her to stare at the entrance in the far distance. "Charon. The souls who enter must carry a coin under their tongue to be admitted. Those turned away, stay there - doomed to remain undead and without any hope of peace." Sherlock's lips force out a humorless laugh. "This is the realm I was dealt, by dear brother Mycroft."

Thunder raged behind him. He ignored it.

She speaks again, quietly, "And - and a field? With people, so unbearably sad and hopeless?"

His own eyes turn curiously towards her. "You strayed far, little goddess."

Molly doesn't answer, but her breathing quickens. Her eyes quickly dropped down to the ground, and his own turn sad.

"Perhaps you are thinking of the Mourning Fields. _Love_ is costly thing. I created it for the souls who _wasted_ their lives for love that could and would not be." His words tear out vicious and raw as he turns back to the window, almost bitterly. "As so many do."

At this, she turns away, soft steps towards the table he had left. Her words came out quiet. "Perhaps they went about it the wrong way."

As did his own. "Perhaps they did."

Hesitantly, she bites her lip before asking, "Do...any of them...find their - their peace?"

His heart nearly stops in his chest, but still he doesn't look at her. "Some do. Love...isn't nearly as unrequited as some think."

They stay still for a moment, before she nods slowly, and slips out of the room, back into her garden.


	7. Chapter 7

**You ready for this? A _one thousand_ _word_ chapter. I know it's not really a lot, but from the person who consistently struggles to write 200 - this is a big deal to me.**

 **Some knowledge before you read:**

 **Yarrow actually is good. Don't pay attention to my slander of it. It's proven to be good for wounds and all sorts of things.**

 **Bloodroot I mostly chose for the name. It was briefly used as a pretty great cancer treatment but that was proven to be a hoax - the Indians used it for wounds, but mostly I think it's toxic. Don't use it.**

 **Thanks to Come2MyRescue for the review!**

Eyes intent on the plant in front of him, Sherlock deftly slips a sliver blade from his robes. Carefully, he lays the cool steel against his forearm before slicing in a quick motion into his skin, creating a golden slash. Exhaling hard with the unexpected pain brought by an obvious miscalculation - he had cut a little too deeply for his own purposes - he presses a crushed plant into the wound, frowning at the cut.

"Why not heal it yourself?" Her voice carries to him from the edge of the tree line, not unlike his own when he took her. The back of Molly's neck pricks, but she ignores it. "You are a god, after all."

Glancing up at her, he forces his head back down to his arm, partly out of necessity demanded from his wound, and to hide the flush creeping up his neck. He prayed to any of the gods listening that she wouldn't notice the similarities between her field, and the one he had created in the Underworld. He feels uncomfortably vulnerable, he's not used to it, and Sherlock hates it.

"An experiment of sorts. I was - _trying_ \- ," he hisses a little at a sudden sting, " - to find the best aid for blood clotting, but have had little luck."

"Yarrow?" she asks, curiously.

"Myth," he dismisses. "Homer wrote that Achilles used it to stop the flow of blood during the Trojan War, a ridiculous and inaccurate embellishment - I should know," he says, with a sudden and bitter laugh, " - I was quite present during that war."

Suddenly sad, Molly says softly, "Of course you were." Crossing quickly to a lone bloom, his eyes following her movements, she laid a gentle hand over it, watching the flower shudder. "As was I. I planted flowers on many of the warriors' graves when the worst was over."

"I know." Sherlock bit his lip, wondering if he should keep speaking - perhaps better to stop now.

Her brow furrows. "Do you?" She lifts curious eyes from the flower up to him.

A deep breath - it doesn't help. "I saw you there, while I was observing the damage. That was - ," he pauses, to look at her cautiously, " - the first time I ever saw you."

He remembers it well. Amidst the death and carnage, she had been there, charming flowers out of the blood soaked dirt on the ghastly battlegrounds. Dying, the foolish men cried out and called her an angel, while still others saw her for which she was: a goddess.

"Damage," she laughs, almost humorlessly. It was strange to hear such steel words from her. It doesn't escape his notice how she avoids his confession. "How cold you are. Dead and dying men, nothing but damage."

It almost hurt. "I'm sure I don't mean to." _Perhaps I can't help it_ , he wants to say.

She turns thoughtful. "No." Another touch on a dying bloom, but it's too far gone. She watches it wilt and crumble with sorrowful eyes. "I'm sure you don't."

Molly stands, surprising him. She crosses quickly to a patch of dirt, laying her hand across it. Something flutters under her palm.

She turns away from him. "You could change, if you wanted." It's quiet, he has to strain to hear it. "You needn't be so cold. If you didn't want to."

A trickle of immortal blood - ichor - falls down his arm - a quick swipe of his finger, a dark chuckle. "We are gods. _Change_ does not come easy to us." He frowns at the amount of blood still leaking, mentally taking a note of the ineffective plant. A swift wave of his hand, and the cut is closed. " _We_ are the _constants_ , the foundation of this world." It's a familiar speech, one in which he can hear his brother in his own voice, and he hates it. Sardonic and mocking, he taunts, "And this _world_ cannot afford to be without us."

Bitterly, he withdraws his blade again, slicing again near his wrist, watching the gold seep. " _Ab initio mundi_ ," he remarks darkly. _From the beginning of the world._ He sees the tiniest shudder in her shoulders.

" _Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis,_ " she replies, softly. _The times are changing, and we change in them._

" _Time_ , devourer of all things," he spits. It's too much. Why should he change, why does she believe that he needs to? "Perhaps so, but death does not change. It stays stagnant, a surety in the short lives of mortals, and even the gods fear death. And _I_ , am the god of death. Nobody _cries_ out my name for help, and I would not bring it."

There's a silence, and he begins to feel wary when she stands, cupping something in her hands. Crossing the field, she kneels in front of him.

It's a white flower. Small, delicate, with eight hopeful petals. He's never seen it before.

"Bloodroot," she spoke quietly, tugging each petal off before crushing them in her palms. " _Sanguinaria canadensis._ " The name is unfamiliar, which annoys him. "The stem is poisonous, but if you're careful, the petals aren't. It should stop the bleeding, and help with scars." A smile tugs at her lips. "The name is a little misleading."

He watches her tear a steady strip off the bottom of her dress, winding it carefully around her hands. He can hardly breathe. Taking his wrist in the open palm, Molly slowly presses the paste into his cut, not reacting to his wincing at the sting. Methodically, she wraps the soft cloth around his wrist. As she works, she speaks softly, and her voice sounds like a healing song.

"People change, Sherlock." His body shudders at the sound of his name from her lips. "Everyone does - gods, mortals, spirits." She ties a neat knot at the base of this wrist. Again, a small smile on her lips. "Death is not nearly as permanent as we think. And you are not as cold as you believe."

Her delicate fingers are cold on his arm, but he makes no move to pull away.

…

"Your time is running out, brother."

"I _know_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Ugh. One of my least favorite chapters. Truth is, I'm trying to figure out what I intend to do next. Please tell me: would you rather I drag it out more, or should I finally just post the ending I've come up with?**

 **This chapter deals more with Sherlock's problems, as the god of the dead. The way I see it, that role would inspire a lot of self-esteem issues. Enjoy!**

She's lying underneath her willow tree - perfectly, almost frighteningly still - hair spread out over a ring of growing wildflowers only around her. A wind brushes the lazy, far-reaching branches of the tree gently against her side, but her smooth eyelids stay shut.

Sherlock barely allows his cloak to fall against his ankles before he's moving again, smoothly walking towards her. Parting the hanging leaves with a swift wave, and he's settling himself a careful distance from her outstretched palm. Her lips curve up for a soft second in gentle acknowledgement, before smoothing back down into her peaceful expression.

He feels safer, steadier - watching her when she can't see him. It's comforting to follow the flicker of her eyes under the alabaster lids, to see the eyelashes brush against her cheeks.

"You're pale," he says, his brow pinching together for just a small moment. It's obvious to see - her skin is far too white, far paler than when he had first taken her. Sherlock is careful to keep his concern out of his voice.

She draws in an unsteady breath through parted lips. "I'll be alright," she soothes quietly, eyes still closed. "I'm just...a little tired."

His lips fall together tightly, and guilt clenches his throat into an uncomfortable lump. "It's because you haven't eaten." It's a topic that they've avoided, never tried to talk about, because they both know what it means - she doesn't want to stay.

Of course he knew that, but it hurts all the same.

Molly lets out a breathy, tired laugh from her place on the ground, but she doesn't lift her lids. "Gods don't need to eat, Sherlock," she reminds him.

His voice is harder this time, wanting some acknowledgement of her - _his_ mistreatment of her. "We _like_ to. And especially minor gods - we _like_ to." He's punishing her unfairly, out of misplaced fears, unfamiliar disquiet. Sherlock knows she knows that, but he also knows that Molly will forgive him.

She doesn't flinch, like he would have liked her to. Instead she teases weakly back, "How would you know, King of the Underworld?"

Sherlock might have laughed, if he wasn't so worried.

Idly, for sake of distraction from his building discomfort, he looks to the flowers surrounding her. Spotting a foreign specimen, Sherlock reaches out curiously to stroke a bright petal and the flower wilts, curling into itself before finally shuddering and crumbling. He makes to jerk back as if he's been burned, but Molly has reached out a small hand to catch his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

Ice eyes glance from her fingers to her serene face, where her eyes still elude his. They don't open, and he's about to ask her why when she gently guides his hand to the soil near her waist.

His fingers instinctively dig into the cold earth, with the warmth of her fingers wrapped his wrist. She draws in a labored breath, the little color left in her skin disappearing. But her grip tightens, and her brow furrows, and something moves underneath his palm.

It's tiny - small, fragile. He can identify what it is immediately though - a poppy. A flower that has had itself convoluted and distorted but still for all that remains enduringly, amazing brilliant.

When he moves his hand away to reveal the bloom he's afraid to touch it again. Molly nods her head encouragingly, screwing her eyes shut tighter to get to the last bit of her energy. He watches her for a moment, with sad eyes - but as soon as she moves his hand again his attention is caught, breath stilled. She moves slowly towards the petals, letting his hand rest on it.

For once, life does not shy away from him. With her touch on his arm, the bloom pulses between his fingers, growing and stretching and _pushing_ further into the Underworld.

For a moment he is paralyzed by the poppy. He's heard of mortals using the flower, the seeds as a pain relief, a way to turn themselves off - he is a god, yes, but perhaps in larger quantities -

She slides her cold fingers down to his palm, grasping his hand completely and stilling it. A soft murmur - "That is not why I created it for you, Sherlock." - and he's steady again, anchored to her palm, no longer tempted.

He steals a glance at Molly, and is suddenly struck with the realization that she is the only truly live thing in this realm. It's startling, but these days she looks more dead than alive.

When he is reaching again for the quivering flower, Molly suddenly gasps in pain, her back thrown into an arch off the ground, hand breaking off the tight hold it had on his. The flower wavers delicately, and breaks apart in his fingers - she slumps back down, a mumbled, exhausted apology slipping through her lips as she tries to draw in difficult breaths.

Trembles take over his body, too shy and afraid to try and comfort her. It had felt so very good to see life under his fingers for once, to feel something live and breathe and _grow_ \- but it had been even more jarring to see it die.

"Just this once," he says blankly, more to himself than anyone, "it was nice to see something _living_ here, in the Underworld. I just - I just wish…"

She's lifting herself up, a hand on his shoulder to support as she struggles to remain upright. They are thigh-and-thigh, her forehead leaning against the his temple, light breaths exhaled softly against his skin.

"I am sorry, Sherlock," Molly murmurs exhaustedly against the bone. His eyes slide shut unconsciously, craving the closeness she was giving him. "I am sorry."

She stays slumped against him, until at last the energy comes to her to press a soft, sad kiss to his cheek.

He's tempted to turn his head, but can't summon the courage.


	9. Chapter 9

**Guess who's back with this story! Very excited, and I've settled on a path: next chapters are sort of A Christmas Carol-y, ghosts telling you this is a mistake and such.**

 **Anyway, _somebody_ mentioned my story/profile to the Mizjoely's Sherlollists and I just about cried when I saw that, and proceeded to rededicated myself to this so thank you, thank you, thank you to that lovely person. Hope you like it!**

 **I haven't been getting the notification that my chapter's gone up, something that's been happening with a lot of my stories lately. So if you got multiple or none, much apologies.**

Molly stands near the gates of the Underworld, her swept up hair trailing between her shoulder blades while loose wisps twist in the restless, always present wind. The winding enclosing is made of black, sooty steel, twisting and curving to the red hue sky before falling sharply down in an unforgiving, sharp movement. It creates a spider web: trapping those who enter inside, while beckoning those who still remain free. And even in stillness, it bodes ill for the new arrivals.

People - their skin washed out and their shoulders hunched with the new burdens - line at the entry, thousands and thousands stretching far beyond her own perfect eyesight can see. Many of them carry the same appearance: clothing barely clinging to their flesh, hollows deep in the cheeks, frightened eyes sunk within their craters.

Victims of horrific starvation - the startled breaths push from her even quicker, struggling to complete them as she watches these casualties of what must be her mother's grief and rage.

The air pricks with electricity suddenly; the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"It's been like this ever since you were taken. Thousands everyday, pouring into the gates like madmen - I imagine Sherlock is quite overwhelmed."

Molly doesn't start - she's surprised, yes, but the horrors of what she sees is numbing her to any other interruptions. Her body remains facing the marching dead, wisps of brown hair from her loose bun brushing against her slender neck.

"Taken," she repeats softly, tasting the words on her tongue; perhaps the time passes slower here, or she's so weakened from being the only living being in a strictly dead world, but she knows that it feels like an impossible amount of time ago, to even the goddess who has lived more years than she can remember.

The man lifts an unimpressed eyebrow, adding in a hardened tone, "Yes. _Taken._ "

Molly doesn't miss the emphasized word, the connotations behind it; uneasiness rises in her stomach. Her white dress rustles in his wind, dead grass curling under it.

The procession of the dead continues, and she watches with growing nausea as a horrifically thin man stumbles, and falls to his knees.

The bare feet shuffle on, blind and deadened to any difficulties. Their eyes are vacant.

They move silently evermore to the entrance of the Underworld. Molly bites a delicate lip, her brow furrowing as the stranger struggles to his feet, knees scraped raw against the barren earth. Her hand curls in the fabric by her side; the vines lying lifeless in the dust unfurl gently and guide the man up - he looks around bewildered, before his gaze drops to the retreating plants, grief etched in every deep line of his face.

Molly's heart aches; she can't do anything more. She feels drained, the usual symptoms of using her powers of late; this land is killing her by the hour.

Unwilling or unable to watch more, she finally turns to the man standing silently beside her.

He stands alone, regal and erect against the red sky of the Underworld. The air is sharper around him somehow, crackling and humming with subdued energy. His presence swallows the very atmosphere around him, and Molly can feel his unknowable power stirring the uneasiness within her. _This is the man_ , it occurs to her, _that could destroy me with a single thought._

His dark cloak never rests at his ankles, fluttering and churning and twirling at wind that will never fade but never be felt by anyone other than him; the cloth seems made of stars, of lightning, of clouds of storm-potential - it shimmers, but as she tries to focus on the fabric it fades from her, eluding all but its master's eyes. A grimace rests familiarly on his face, matching nicely with the darkish-auburn of his hair. The King of the Gods does not ever smile.

Molly gathers the white silk in her hands routinely, dropping a small curtsey his way. He acknowledges it with only a slight, regal tilt of his head, looking rather displeased to be found so nakedly in his younger brother's realm. She'd only seen him twice before - the nature goddess never had much cause to go to Olympus, though her mother would complain endlessly of the arrogant and insufferable ruling god, and Molly would conjure up images of the cold but overwhelmingly powerful man she had long ago once been in the presence of.

Mycroft's appearance hasn't changed a bit - but that's how it is with gods. And his reign has not been one to afford many changes.

"And it's your fault, you know," the god continues plainly, as if picking up some conversation never had. It's a cruel thing to point out - _this death, Molly, this procession of emaciated humans, is all because of you._ His tone is dry, an accusation from a disapproving judge; he lays the weight upon her like a sentence. "Your foolish mother is throwing the mortal world into chaos and flames, and all because of you."

She keeps quiet, knowing this is true - it _is_ her fault, and her mother _is_ destroying the world - the mortal one, at least. Even the nature goddess has lived long enough to know it is only a matter of time before the humans will raze their own home - they are destructive beasts posing as rulers over nature. That is the mindset of the arrogant, ancient Olympians - regarding themselves as the _true_ kings of the universe. But Molly knows that there was a time before gods, just as she knows that the mortal race cannot last, but finds herself more fond of humans than other gods. They are softer at times, more willing to change when change is needed.

Her brown eyes track the last of the dying line, face smooth and lips slightly parted. Her skin is white-snow pale, drained of any color as her powers seep slowly into the dead land.

"You're going to have to go back," he states plainly, bending sideways to examine the decaying, dusty ground with a grimace and raised eyebrow. Mycroft's lip curls at the sight - his kingdom is one of splendor and glory, a far cry from this barren land.

"Is that an order from my king?" Molly asks sincerely, bowing her head humbly as she expected the king of the gods would require and await. She is glad of the chance to divert off of the subject of blame, and if she's mocking, even she can't tell - the goddess is too tired to discern her mind. His powerful fingers twitch irritably, unused to _not knowing._

Mycroft straightens back to his regal posture, casts a scowl around the land of the dead. "No, I believe it's an order from your conscience."

It's a pointed reply, even if said with such easy effort. Her banter is light, but the cost is heavy - they are gambling lives, even if just mortal ones.

She turns to face him, a slight, teasing smile on her face, ignoring the guilt twisting in her stomach. "How would you know?"

Molly keeps the small bit of hopelessness in the question to herself, the smile remaining fixed upon her face as she waits for his reply.

The grimace takes his face again. "How indeed."

Silence reigns again, and she is suddenly aware of the space between them. The air feels lighter, more ready to leave at any moment's notice of danger.

In the quiet, the people's feet march on.

"I wonder why you are so unenthused to leave, little goddess." A pause, turning to narrow his eyes with sudden interest, before adding sardonically, "It can't be the accommodations."

Molly feels uncomfortable as the immediate urge to deny rises in her - the goddess is not quite sure what that means. Her right hand twitching and curling in the folds of the white silk. "Am I to be your experiment, Lord Mycroft? I understand it's a common trait among brothers."

"Perhaps eager to be the Queen of the Underworld," Mycroft muses to himself, knowing cruelly how very well she can hear him, before drawing in a martyred breath and turning to address her. "An observation subject would be more accurate, goddess." His head tilts mockingly as he regards her with eager poison - this is all but a game to him. "I take interest in the failings and pitfalls of the mortal mind, and I do find that you are so similar to them."

"Simple," she interprets flatly.

" _Weak_ ," he returns sharply and promptly, eyes gleaming with the well-aimed stab and a plain relishment in the words - suddenly she knows that he has been baiting her to this dialogue since the beginning, like a perfectly timed war. Molly can feel his eyes as he watches her with cold amusement finally discern his already executed battle plan that has left her easily outmaneuvered; a cold shiver runs through her body.

She doesn't know how to reply - not with hot tears pricking in the corner of her brown eyes and nausea rising fast in her throat and a sudden feeling of being tricked and used - so she curls the forgiving fabric tightly in her hand and turns away not knowing where she is going.

"Child," - and something different in his voice makes her stop, turning back to see the King of the Gods running a tired hand across his forehead; he abruptly seems weary, vulnerable, bone deep exhaustion permeating and populating the air that he reigns - "Sherlock isn't as formidable as he likes to think, as he likes to pretend." His all-knowing eyes sweep over her, evaluating - a touch pained as though regretting what he is about to say. "You would do well to remember that."

The clouds above are darkening, gathering and churning with storm and rain just beyond its reach. Molly looks up at the sky momentarily with troubled eyes, feeling the first cold drops of rain prick on her bare skin, before they fall back to see that Mycroft is gone; he leaves the land emptier than it has ever felt.

She stands there for a moment, her silhouette dark against the falling sun, lining her body in golden outlines. Her head is bent down, eyes watching restless wind blow deads petals and dust across the land. And the rain falls faster, washing and blurring her image away.


End file.
